


Dear Jegus, do something.

by egregiousSynonyms



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Pale Fire, Troll Elizabeth Taylor is a goddess, Troll Kansas, Vladimir Nabokov, all of the literary references, all of them - Freeform, egregiousTagging, ramble on my wayward troll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egregiousSynonyms/pseuds/egregiousSynonyms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the first half is Kanaya's humorous inner-monologues. And the second half is smut peppered with humorous inner-monologues.</p><p>aka Kanaya Always Ruins the Mood Forever<br/>aka I think it's funny?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Jegus, do something.

**Author's Note:**

> There's sex in this fic, but this fic isn't about sex. It's about Rose and Kanaya being silly and bored and stuck on a meteor for three years.
> 
> Headcannon #1: Trolls are partially sexually dimorphic. Male trolls have bigger bulges through which they expel genetic material and smaller nooks. Female trolls have marble-sized bulges and larger nooks through which they expel genetic material.  
> Headcannon #2: It take a while for Rose to turn into an alcoholic. Imagine this comes before Rose's drinking gets super-serious. Alcoholic!Rose makes me sad, so I need her sober for this fic.
> 
> Ps. This is my first fic. Ever. Read it and tell me what you think of my obnoxious prose.  
> Pps. No colors or typing quirks. You can't make me.

Ever since Karkat and Dave’s arguments had begun spilling into the main library, the two of you had taken to spending time in your room. Rose was a bit touchy with space and did not approve of egregious yelling when she was trying to do research. Had she access to this inner, second-person monologue, Rose would feign disgust at that pun. Unfathomable hours together, however, had taught you that the Seer’s Strider-esque aura of comedic superiority was a penetrable crock of horseshit. Prick it and her self-crafted sarcasm-balloon would deflate like one Mickey Squeekbeast under a particularly high gale during that bizarre human-and-animated-media-character-ambulation Rose described as a “parade.” In your opinion, the whole affair seemed, to be blunt, horrifically tacky and more than a little dangerous, though, you have to admit, you find the consumerist implications of this “Macy’s Day” interesting and even a little appealing considering the overall disinterest in fashion and non-practical adornments in Alterian culture. You think that you would enjoy visiting a human shopping block, though Rose has assured you that these “malls” are “fluourescent-lit nightmares filled with only the most vapid examples of pubescent—

“Kanaya.”

You snap from your reverie and in the direction of your name. Rose has fixed you with a gaze of amusement. Subtle, poised, one eyebrow quirked, black-painted lips nigh-imperceptibly parted, fingers lightly tracing the words she just read in yet another lowbeastskin-bound tome. Gog, she is attractive—

“Kanaya?” 

You blush, which manifests itself as an increase of luminescence in your cheeks. Being undead and all, your cheeks cannot fill with blood you do not have. Anyway, you suppose it would be prudent to answer your matesprit. “Yes?”

“You’ve been staring at the wall and making the most entertaining facial expressions for the past several minutes. Since few forces are strong enough to drag you away from your fascinating research on-“ She pauses to squint at the title of the book in your lap. Now when did that fall closed? “-‘The Oxygenation Properties of Cerulean-Blood in Nymph-Stage Wrigglers In Relation to the Vastly Inferior Yet Tenacious Arterial Walls of Rust-Blooded Nymph-Stage Wrigglers,’” 

Rose enunciates every word with the tone that you have learned to mean a calculated insincerity. She adds a lengthy pause after the title of your book. For dramatic effect, you assume.

“there must be nothing short of a spectacle on that deceivingly blank steel wall and you simply must enlighten me as to the secret of properly viewing it.”

“Far be it for me, a lowly Sylph, to dictate to you, a godly Seer, on how to view anything, let alone the subtle play of unchanging luminescence on the walls of my respite block.” Your words fall flat. You suppose that your blood-pusher is just not in it today.

Rose smiles, closes her book, the title you notice to be Pale Fire, something that must be human in origin because a troll title would never be so infuriatingly vague. It probably has to do with the temperatures at which certain materials combust in relation to the less-saturated sections of the color spectrum. Now really, how hard would it have been to print that title and Rose is suddenly next to you on your fabric pile, very close indeed. 

“Oh,” you elegantly quip.

“You seem more distracted than usual. May I ask what you’re thinking about?”

You frown. What have you been thinking about? 

“Shopping malls.”  
“Shopping malls?”  
“I know that you feel negatively towards them, but I think that it might be pleasant to visit a place where the primary concern is the procurement of various fabrics and fashionable goods.”

Rose smiles. “So its visions of pretzel stands and department stores dancing on the wall?”

“’Parades,’ too.”

Rose covers her mouth, smile widening until her composure breaks and out flies an undignified snort followed by a round of giggles. You join in, unsure how you provoked such a violent reaction with your inner musings. Rose calms down and nestles her face into the crook of your neck. Her breath is hot against your skin, and though this is not a particularly scandalous position, you find your own quickening (which is completely reflexive, you muse, because you do not, in fact, require breathing to survive).

“God, Kanaya, I’m so,” Rose mumbles into your neck, “fucking bored.”

You smile as Rose further relaxes into you and petulantly tugs at your sleeve. When you playfully slap her hands away, she nips at your neck and looks up at you expectantly.

Surely it is more crisp wordplay that she expects! “So you haven’t been enjoying your text on the immolation of certain materials that burn with a lack of—“ 

You are suddenly cut off by Rose’s mouth pressing to yours, by the scent of sandalwood that always seems to linger on her god-tier pajamas, the only thing that you can really stand about them, and there is a warm hand creeping up under your shirt. And your hands have tossed away her headband and are now snaking through the silkiest blonde hair you have ever had the pleasure of touching (the only blonde hair you have ever had the pleasure of touching, the whole hair color being completely foreign to you before the day you volunteered to troll Rose and saw her for her for the first time through the viewport and oh!) Excuse you, oh there is a leg pressing between your thighs. 

It is now that your realize that you are short a shirt, your skirt is unbuttoned, and you are actively fumbling with the ties on Rose’s “sun-sari.” Rose pulls her head back, graces you with two raised eyebrows (for your chronic spacing out or your clothing fumbles you just do not know), and two violet eyes smoldering with equal parts amusement and lust. You have always thought that her eyes resembled galaxies, their abundance of golden flecks like the infinity of stars that pricked the clear desert sky of your childhood. It also occurs to you that—

“Kanaya.”  
“Yes?”  
“You seem distracted.”  
“Oh. It is just that your eyes are the same color as Troll Elizabeth Taylor’s and she happened to be my favorite actress on Alternia.”

Rose smiles. “I’d imagine.”

“Also, your eyes are beautiful.”

At this, Rose kisses you sweetly and the two of you stay like that awhile. It is not long, however, before Rose has taken your lower lip between her teeth and has reset her thigh to grinding against you. This time, you undo the clasps of her garment with ease and she shifts off the fabric like a wriggler shedding its first exoskeleton. Hmm. So much for waxing poetic. Both you and Rose unceremoniously remove your undergarments (hers a pair of lavender boyshorts and a black bra, yours jade and trimmed with black lace, someday you will create for her a superior set of lingerie but you have yet to work up the nerve to ask to take such intimate measurements) and return to your highly-stimulating foreplay from which you are not in the least bit distracted.

You drag your black-painted nails down Rose’s side as she runs two fingers along the length of your sex. You both let out simultaneous gasps followed by simultaneous stifles of giggles at life’s awkwardness. Rose, not the type to be setback by silliness, goes to work running her thumb over your bulge in rhythmic circles. You part your lips, smirk replaced by a shudder and a fang sinking into your lower lip. You run a finger across Rose’s opening, dragging the clear slickness to Rose’s own bulge (when you asked, she called it a clitoris and gave several possible etymologies ranging from “little hill” to a sort of key and you commented on the metaphor-driven nature of Rose’s native tongue and the corner of her mouth twitched in an almost-smile and said that she had never thought of it that way) where you alternately apply pressure in rapid swipes that cause her to buck her hips and shiver. You move your fingers down to her opening and insert two, hooking your fingertips to catch on the anterior bundle of nerves hiding under rough skin. Her back arches and a delicate little moan escapes her lips, and you resume work on her bulge-clit-whatever with your thumb, occasionally dragging a nail over the sensitive skin. The nails of your right hand drag angry red lines down Rose’s side and back (she had been so embarrassed when she told you that maybe she would like to try a little pain during sex, and you had been reluctant until you saw that a few scratches and a well-placed bite could turn your matesprit into a quivering mess) and she whines with pleasure.

Rose’s whining moans and shaky breaths are dragging you close to the edge. Your fingers pump within her with renewed vigor and her body vibrates against you like a tuning fork and suddenly jade is spilling from your nook (all over a nice swatch of burgundy that you alchemized just the other day gogdammit) and Rose’s rigid vibrations have subsided into occasional shivers and she seems to be trying to burrow into your chest with aggressive cuddling. You hold her close and murmur nothings into the top of her hair. 

The next few minutes are filled with blissful silence, and even your brain is quiet as the two of you lay entwined.

Rose is the first to speak: “Pale Fire is about an overly-hairy homosexual academic that everyone detests, his commentary on his colleague’s epic poem, and the ghost of an ugly teenage girl that translates supernatural messages from a make-shift Ouija board in a barn.”

“Oh.”

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously though, this is one of my first prose pieces at all. I mostly write poetry and research papers. So I don't know how I do at characters or plot (there isn't really any plot here) or capturing voices or writing in second person (which I've always been taught is, like, evil) or anything. If you made it through that stupid amount of words, I really appreciate it and would love to hear from you in the comments.


End file.
